Gardian
by maximoose
Summary: When the Varden suddenly come upon a mysterious poem, their mortality is realised and the end rejudged. Unless they can find ten very real and very elusive people, how will they be able to prevent the total collapse of their universe?
1. Prelude: Break

Story Begining: Sometime before the battle between Galbatorix, Murtagh, Thorn, Oromis, and Glaedr, if for any reason than to selfishly preserve them for the story...

Mwahahahahahahahahahahahar (evil laugh over doing it... O.o)

* * *

_It was dark inside his head. Lit up here and there with pinpoints that seemed to form a pattern. While he watched, they swirled, growing larger, larger still as their motion became more frantic. Very soon it was too difficult to determine the interval between one star and the next._

"May I come in?" Eragon heard Nasuada address Saphira, too overrun with fatigue to open his eyes and greet her as she stepped into the clearing.

_You are always welcome,_ Saphira included him in the conversation, although he barely gave the words a passing thought. He was too enthralled in the mysterious patterns that faded from his mind, leaving him dazed and slightly confused at the flow of emotions that accompanied them.

Eragon had returned from a reconnaissance mission not half an hour previously. He was completely beaten, and seemed to be the only one who thought the exercise was pointless. They found nothing out of the ordinary, just a large bog and far too many mosquitoes for that time of the year.

Apparently, the area was too insignificant to plot on any map. None of the other members in the party thought it would do well for him to know where they were going, an obvious fact that had him seething the entire time. As did the idea that there was something significant everybody was keeping from him. Did they seriously think he was that untrustworthy?

The whole left side of his body ached from a head on collision with a tree. Even Saphira had given him grief on that one. There was something wrong with his feet; his hands wouldn't move; the rest of his body refused to respond to any command.

Curled against Saphira, Eragon was as close to being asleep as he could get when the world seemed to rock back in an extreme sense of vertigo. Something screamed into his mind, not a voice, but a shockwave of emotion. Then there were the stars, they made his head spin faster than it was already. Agony, terror, depression, they all fought for a hold. However, his emotional state was stuck on self pity from the turn out of the mission. Instead of running about, screaming and clutching madly at his head, which he very well might have done, he lay there, focussing on the night sky. At least, that's what he though it was.

As abruptly as it had come, the force faded, leaving him emotionally as well as physically battered. He tried to bring the stars back into his mind. The connection had been weak, despite the devastating power it demonstrated when it infiltrated his defences, crashing through uncontrolled. It confused him how he could still be alive, or at the limit: conscious.

Somewhere in the distance, he made out the hollow voices of Saphira and Nasuada. Their words were lost to him, Saphira giving up trying to coax him into socialisation after his failure to deliver even a hello.

A dawning sense of alarm at the possibilities pushed Eragon back to the real world. This was serious; he had to warn someone, to check that he wasn't the only one to receive the message. If that's what it was. Doubt also filtered in through the gaps around the confusion and fatigue. His head pulsed. _Perhaps it will explode and I won't have to think about it anymore..._

_What are you on about?_

Reluctantly, Eragon opened his eyes. Angela stood over him, a wet cloth in one hand and a crumpled piece of paper in the other.

"Morning," he mumbled, closing his eyes again. It was all he could think to do. The woman looked like she might erupt at any moment.

Angela abandoned the cloth, dropping it onto his chest.

"I'm glad you're finally awake," she sounded as though she was at the other end of the tent. Eragon peeled open his eyes, confirming his own suspicion. Angela growled under her breath, ripping things out of bags. Quite a few of them disappeared through the flap in the tent.

"How long have I been here?" It was obvious he wasn't in his own cot, the pungent fragrances and occasional croak told him that.

Angela looked surprised to find him lying prostrate on her mattress when she turned around. She frowned. "Quite some time, actually. I'm surprised you woke up on your own."

It hurt to move, so he focused his eyes on hers in the hope that it would be enough. "Angela, why am I in your tent?"

"Well, there's certainly nothing wrong with your ability to make intelligible speech..." she said rather offhandedly, tossing the thick volume she went to all that trouble to search for through the tent flap to rest on the pile with the her other discarded possessions.

Eragon said her name again, tempted to make her answer with magic, though he knew he hadn't the energy for that.

"I'll tell you, just give me a moment to get some things together," her back was to him even as she said it, ending the conversation.

Placing the cloth on his forehead consumed more of his energy then he thought it would, and he spent the rest of the day unable to move. Eragon refused to sleep, though, staring at anything and everything in the gloom as night began to settle. There was not exactly any shortage of stuff to look at. The pickled frog startled him when it twitched in its jar of coloured formula. That pretty much summed up the excitement of the day.

"Right," at last Angela went to his side, dragging a heavy chest to sit on. Beside her, she rested a stack of books, many so old their spines were held together with sticky gel, Angela's own creation. "Where do you want to start?"

Eragon opened his mouth, prepared to launch into an array of questions, when his stomach beat him to it.

Angela smiled, "Don't worry, I'll fix us something while we talk. I'm feeling a tad hungry myself," standing, she busied herself again. "Now I can't find anything..."

The Rider watched her for a while, completely absorbed in the level of concentration the woman exhumed. It was only until she lit the lantern that he it dawned on him and formed his first question.

"Where's Solembum?" Eragon was frustrated that he hadn't noticed this earlier.

Angela made a clicking sound with her tongue, "I wish I knew. He left soon after they brought you to me. I didn't even think he took one look at you and then poof"—she produced a large metal pot—"he toddled off. Not a word nor a warning nor a goodbye, thankyou, come again." The pot she set on a stand. "To first peel the onions, one must find them..."

Eragon stammered, "Hold-hold on, when you said they, you mean...?"

"Blödhgarm and Arya, yes."

"No, I was with Saphira after the reconnaissance mission that was a complete waste of time. Nasuada came, and then..."

Angela stopped what she was doing. Giving a little chuckle, she said in an almost singsong voice, "You've been out cold for a month, Eragon."

"A month!"

"Three weeks give or take if we're talking technicalities..."

"Angela! I can't have been asleep for that long," even as he heard himself say this he didn't quite believe it. "A month..." he groaned.

"You can't move, well... not very far if you can. Promise me you won't try. I've been rubbing oils over you to keep your muscles warm, but that doesn't seem to have done anything. You'll be lucky if your body remembers how to walk."

"How can you say that so matter of factly?" fury was beginning to steal into his voice, though it was directed at himself. _I didn't do that much damage when I hit the tree... did I?_

"I'm sorry, Eragon, really I am." Despite looking hard for the negative, he knew she meant it. Eragon was feeling spiteful now, though the full implications of what had been said hadn't entirely reached him yet.

"Do..." he cleared his throat. He had to know if all this was self inflicted. "Do you know what happened? Can you come up with a reason to explain all this? One that makes sense?"

Angela gave up on the onion and came to sit back on the chest.

"I can."

He waited for her to go on, however, she seemed distracted so he left her to it. The possibilities endlessly swirled about in his head, blurred together and just beyond his reach.

"First, I need you to tell me exactly what you remember." Eragon opened his eyes, surprised that they had shut in the first place. Angela had ink and paper at the ready.

"Okay, umm..."

"Shut your eyes if you think it will help."

He didn't but shut them anyway. "I remember... running into that tree. I think that was partially why I ached so much." He chanced a peek. Angela was scribbling away at the paper and didn't seem too phased by the whole tree thing. This bothered him. Nevertheless, he moved on to distract himself, if not her, from the embarrassing moment. "Everything hurt and I was tired and angry, so I lay down with Saphira as soon as I got back," he was just pitting ideas now, really having no clue as to what she was going on about. Then it hit him. "Something happened. Something huge. It was like the whole world shifted from beneath me and I was left falling."

Angela nodded, tapping the feather against her chin thoughtfully. "And then what happened?"

"Something broke into my mind. I felt sad, cold, hurt, afraid, and then all I could see was the night sky, spinning around inside my head."

"The constellations were different."

"Yes, I didn't know if they were real stars, though. None of the points lined up," Eragon stopped. "Did you just tell me you knew what I saw?"

Angela answered with a question, eyes gleaming. It was spooky. Leaning closer, she whispered, "Something, or someone?"

Eragon blinked at her.

"Because I think I know exactly what happened. No, I lie. I know what it was. Or more importantly, who. At least I think I do," the excitement in her voice scared Eragon.

"Slow it down, you're not making sense."

Closing her eyes, Angela took a controlled breath and then continued in the same whisper. Even with his hearing, Eragon had to strain to hear her. "When you said something broke the barrier to your mind, did you mean someone?"

The Rider thought for a moment then nodded. "Yes, I'm pretty sure. It would have been. It felt too real to be an illusion or a dream."

"What do you think it was? What did it mean to you?"

The pause was a lot longer this time. "I'm... not sure."

"What if it was a distress signal?"

"I..."

"A flail, a panic, the final card put in play?"

Eragon shook his head. This was too much to contemplate right now.

Angela stood abruptly, "I received a message from a messenger, an elf, via Nasuada's mirror. Oromis experienced much the same symptoms you have. Only his lasted days, not weeks."

"Is he okay?" Worry flooded into Eragon's mind. So it wasn't just him, someone else had been hit as well.

"Yes, he's fine."

"Oromis!" Eragon exclaimed, turning his attention to the tent's opening.

"Redecorating, Angela?" with a fluent sweep of his arm, the old Rider slipped his way gracefully into the confines beneath the canvas.

"Your arm!" Eragon struggled to sit up. The attempt was hopeless. Oromis crouched beside him, brushing the back of his hand over the young Rider's cheek.

"I told you, I'm fine."

"But, but, bu—"

"I fell into the roof of a church, nearly cut myself to ribbons, but I'm fine," the look on his face reassured Eragon somewhat, not that he wanted to let the injuries drop. Oromis sensed his unease and pushed gently into his mind. He met resistance, Eragon panicking for a brief moment before relaxing and letting the barriers down.

_Why haven't they healed you?_

_I came straight here. I only made contact with Queen Islanzad__í__ to inform her of a delay. My injuries I can deal with, now that there are more important matters in play._

_You haven't told her about what happened?_

_Yes and no. I have told her what I experienced, and of my concern for you and your safety. Concerning the cause, I have told her nothing of my suspicions. You have not yet spoken to Saphira, is this correct?_

Eragon opened his mouth, then paused, searching for the dragon's mind desperately. "I can't"

Oromis nodded, "I, too, have lost contact with Glaedr."

"How?" Angela asked, returning to the chest.

"That, I cannot tell you, and yet I would if I knew."

Something suddenly dawned on Eragon, "You don't think this could be Galbatorix's latest scheme, do you?"

Oromis shook his head, "No, I donot."

"This is bigger than that," Angela held the crumpled paper tight in her fist, knuckles white.

"It would explain a lot. However, I for one believe this is an act far beyond his capabilities."

"If he had the ability to pull off something this big, one can't help thinking why wait this long to do so?"

Eragon shut his eyes. "Then what is it," it was not a question, the Rider had the feeling they were going to tell him anyway.

Angela and the old Rider glanced at one another. Nothing more was said for such a long time, Eragon was beginning to wonder whether he voiced or thought it.

"Why didn't you tell me he was awake?" Arya poked her head inside the tent.

Oromis glanced at Angela, then at Eragon before closing his eyes. The young Rider couldn't help noticing his breathing was unsteady.

"I only just woke up," Eragon lied, dropping his head and letting his eyes shut.

The elf drifted inside. "You donot need to lie to me, Eragon, I can see I am interrupting."

"Not at all, we were only discussing..." he caught the look Oromis threw him then decided to plunge on anyway, "what happened to me."

Arya came and sat on the end of the cot. "Saphira has gone."

If Eragon had any energy left in him, he would have sat up and clutched her by the shoulders. Instead, he blinked. "What?"

The elf didn't seem capable of answering.

"She left not long after Solembum," Angela told him, head bowed and fingering the paper held tightly in her hand. "It must have been hard for her."

Both the elves' heads shot up at this.

"What do you mean, Angela?"

"Where has he gone?"

Angela refused to meet anyone's eye, including Eragon. "He never said anything to me. The last time I saw him was when he walked by you as you brought Eragon to me." Her voice was wrought with sorrow and disappointment. Eragon thought she was going to cry.

"Oh," was all Arya managed. Silence filled the crowded space, broken with the perfect shell they hid in, the flap of the tent pulling back and letting in a rain of torch light.

"Am I missing out on something important?" Nasuada entered, shutting the flap on the solders waiting outside.

"Solembum has gone," Arya stood, offering the spot on the cot in favour of upturning the empty cooking pot.

The leader of the Varden took the freed space, thanking the elf. Blood stained the bandage where her sleeve lifted to reveal it. "Two missing in such a short space of time, and neither reporting where they could be found..." she brooded, "On a lighter note, I'm sure Saphira will be over the moon with joy when she finds out you've woken."

"I can't talk to her." Eragon didn't open his eyes. He felt if he did he would start crying.

For the first time since Arya entered the tent, Oromis spoke. "The connection has broken," his voice caught. It was feint, though its presence evident.

"Galbatorix?" Arya clutched at the pot stand with much the same strength as Angela was the ball of paper.

"No," this said through tightly clenched teeth. It was clear the old Rider experienced great pain, though none had the means to consolidate him.

Nasuada looked from Eragon to Oromis to Angela to the paper held fast within the woman's fist. She watched her stroke a finger along it for a moment before asking, "How do you know?"

It was Arya who answered her. _"He who has many daemons to guide him through the dark can still be slain by the breath of an angel.__ It is not him. For had Eragon, Saphira, Oromis and Glaedr been afflicted, two cases split by leagues with nothing to connect them with action and consequence, save the sacred and ancient bond that joins them, dragon to Rider and Rider to dragon, then surely by reason he must also be touched by the same curse."_ The elf spoke fast, and in a harsh whisper, alternating from the Ancient Language and the common one with a ferocity that noone had ever seen, or would suspect of one such as her.

Eragon opened his eyes. Just as he suspected, a tear snaked its way down his temple. He locked eyes with Oromis, who had been gazing intently at him while the elvan princess spoke.

Angela slowly let her hand peel open, ignoring the paper as it dropped to the floor. Without a word, Nasuada stood, replacing the books on the chest and placing her arm around her.

Oromis looked down. The piece of paper had black ink scrawled over it. He bent and picked it up, smoothing it out on the bed. "You said that word for word, Arya." His tone was flat, deadpan.

The elf looked up, released the death grip on the pot stand and moved over to crouch beside him.

Spread out on the bed was a wood print, a picture from a book. The page was old, crinkled where Angela had squeezed it, wet where her tears had fallen. Beneath the image were the words:

_He Who Has Many Daemons to Guide Him Through the Dark Can Still be Slain by the Breath of an Angel._

The image itself was simple enough, nothing more than a man in full battle gear kneeling before an alter, candles and a chalice resting before him. Yet as the elves stared at it, the ink shimmered.

_"__Malthinae,"_ muttered Arya after reading the words in the Ancient Language. As they stared, the image began to alter itself, becoming unintelligible for a moment until new lines began to form. Except what they formed was not another picture as they might have hoped. Rather a verse.

Oromis' breath caught. Nasuada stood, reading over the elf's shoulder. Arya shook her head and forced herself to her feet, pacing the length of the tent. Angela snivelled where she sat, having read the poem earlier herself.

Eragon lay, observing with a rising curiosity that burnt through his core. "Well, what is it?"

* * *

Although this chapter is quite short and ends on a cliff hanger, I cannot call it the Prelude to Gardian, if simply due to the way in which it ends. Gardian is going to be a long one, with a story line that may seem a little twisted. To make it interesting, there are many references to other books, movies, manga, music, possibly even advertisement - though mostly I think the first two - burried craftily (perhaps, one can only hope) within. I doont know whether I will be allowed to do this, however, it would be kind of cool if I could set up a checklist, where readers can markoff their general fictional entertainment knowlege as they find them. Some are subtle, such as a branch woven into the plot basket, while others are sort of obvious (lines, phrases, et cetera). Suggestions for the way this can be handled and what should be refered to are greatly appreciated, as is any honest criticism! - Maximoose ^^"


	2. One: Morose

Okay, here is the next part...

...I hope there aren't that many mistakes in it...

* * *

_And in death they found what they never had in life. Only in death, they found hope._

The sun filtered through the gap in the tent, where the pot stand had fallen. No one made to move it to a better place – the pot stand and not the hole, though either way it wouldn't have mattered. Were anyone to move them, guaranteed it would have been without attention or particular care. In fact, should anything happen at all, without or indeed within the tent, of any significance, the odds were in great favour of not a single memory of the event. All eyes were focused on the still figure on the bed, chest heaving as the diaphragm rose and fell with heavy breaths.

"You shouldn't have told him," she turned to look at the old man accusingly.

He shrugged, not daring to look the woman in the eye. "What has been done—"

"—has been done and shall be left in the past," Arya finished for him. "Yes, Oromis-elda, we know. That does not put you in the clear; you know it should not have been dealt with quite the way it had."

"Look," Oromis turned to her, glad for the distraction—an excuse not to meet the eyes boring into the back of his head. "I am not going to tell you how this should be handled – noone can – and I have no idea myself. But, there are more than two people in this tent who have been affected by the gravity of the situation, and no doubt many more without."

Rage flashed across her face for the moment it took the elf to get herself under control. "So? You thought you would come out with it, point blank?"

"He is not a child anymore, Arya _drötingu._ He cannot be protected forever."

"Forever is not a very long time. Not anymore," Nasuada stood, arms folded, waiting for him to turn and, at the least, recognise her presence.

His mouth opened, though he had no idea what it was he planned to say. Fortunately for him, he wouldn't have to say anything at all. On the cot, Eragon stirred, letting out a groan as he uneasily shifted his weight.

"Well, then. What are we going to do? If this," she points to the paper held loosely in the young Rider's hand, "gets out, on the off chance people believe it."

"I am having trouble believing it," said Arya.

"It explains the swamp," Angela pointed out, though she made not the slightest effort to move from her chest or lift her head.

The leader of the Varden blinked. "That doesn't help."

"Hold on," Oromis turned to Angela. He would have, anyway, had Nasuada not been standing in front of her. "How does this explain what swamp?"

"There was a swamp before," Eragon answered him, voice horse and feint, as though he may blow away at the slightest inclination. "Before I-I—"

"Eragon went with a reconnaissance team of highly trained trackers to inspect a swamp that replaced Galbatorix' army," the elf finished for him, offering a weak smile.

The old Rider gazed at her, "In the middle of the deasert? Trackers?"

"The swamp did spontaneously appear in the middle of the desert. Perhaps they wished to pursue the one who left it there," offered Angela. Only Eragon got it, laughing so hard he made himself cough.

Hand held to his mouth to ward off another fit – once started, like a nervous tick, these things seldom cease after just the one – he watched them contemplate the dilemma, too weak himself to input. Their words, however, meant nothing, mere sounds buzzing in his ears. When they told him, after Oromis handed over the crumpled paper dismally, he had to ask them to repeat it. The way Oromis answered his question, "What is this meant to be?" stunned him.

At first he was confused, the old elf held his gaze for the moment it took to say, "Eragon, the world is ending," then he found the weaving of the canvas very fascinating. When pressed, all Oromis would do to elaborate is say, "Gardian," then turn his face from all of them and stand in the corner, fiddling with a wooden post.

Eragon peeled apart the folds of the paper, hands shaking with fatigue and hunger. The words seemed to leap out at him, though the only emotion he felt from them was sorrow.

_For my curse there is no cure.  
Death has no care for whom it touches,  
Only that its thirst is quenched.  
I am no exception;  
Far from free to escape the wrath of death.  
__As are you._

_Time may be seem immortal—  
But what is immortality?_

_The sky is going to burn;  
The oceans are about to boil;  
The land will open to receive the living  
So the dead can do the walking._

_And why not?  
I doubt you could tell me.  
For when the worlds are consumed,  
They become another part of  
Death.  
And we all know that the dead are capeable of living._

_The point is simple,  
Yet painful to grasp._

_Is my curse to save them all?  
Even the ones who are already a part?  
For, surely,  
If I am to keep everyone alive,  
Then there is little point in Death.  
_

_I can tell you what I think,  
But noone is going to like it._

_Those who are living,  
Those who have made it as far as they have,  
With what little or much they have,  
These people,  
And these people alone,  
Have the right to life._

_Fear is your enemy.  
Be wary of it more than Death.  
Death comes to all in the end,  
You are never going to escape  
What is part of life.  
_

_Many have died and many more are soon to follow._

_Have faith in yourself._

_Know who you love and keep them near._

_Kiss goodbye any who choose hinder above aid._

_You will need all your strength if you are to beat the game._

_Refuse to abdicate._

_For the day the dead do the walking is fast approaching._

_That day is the beginning of the end._

_~ GARDIAN  
_

A hand closed over his, jerking him back to the real world. Eragon was unaware he was crying until he touched his cheek to find it wet. He stared at the face next to his for a long time. Then it spoke, and he didn't feel as isolated anymore.

"It's going to be okay," whispered Angela, squeezing his hand. "We've decided not to tell anyone until we get a few people together. Then, we're going to try and explain it, and we can figure out the next step once everyone's tried to do so with denial."

"I'm afraid," he whispered back, scrunching the paper and holding it tight so he didn't have to look at it.

She brushed the hair back from his eyes, smiling even though she didn't feel the warmth she forced herself to put into it. "Me too," she sniffed, "but I'm more afraid for them than for myself, or anyone here for that matter. It must be very hard. They'd have to be the bravest people in all the worlds."

He was confused, with no real idea what she was talking about. So he asked, "Why?"

Angela seemed thoughtful for a moment. "Because the Gardian are the only people who know how to stop the void consuming every living thing. It must be the hardest decision to make, to remain nonchalant even when they have to refuse the call for aid, knowing there is nothing that can be done to keep those that beg alive. That's why nearly every story about them does them no credit."

"How do we know who they are? Do we have to find them?" _Who are they?_ he thought but did not add aloud.

This time, when she smiled, Angela meant it. "Were you asleep when you read it? The person who wrote that just about told us to hold on tight," she tapped her nose and winked, "I have the strangest feeling they're going to come to us. Wild, isn't it?"

"Just a bit." He groaned, tummy growling louder.

Suddenly her old buoyant self, and beaming to the brim, Angela stood and picked up the onion, "Now, what shall I make?"

The next few days passed slowly. Eragon saw Nasuada everyday; she requested to be called whenever he woke, and to be woken should it be necessary. They did little in the way of talk. Eragon asked in a husky voice whether there had been any sign of Saphira – _No;_ Nasuada asked if he could contact her – _No._ They went on in that way for four solid days, nearly a week of painful silence, until...

"I think I have the solution," Oromis swivelled the large volume on his lap. They were in Angela's tent, turning page after page of every ancient tome they had access to, none of which came up with any survival clues for the end of time, space, and magic.

"Is it anything like the last twenty times you decided to interrupt?" without looking up, Arya threw the book she had through the flap in the tent. The young Rider was sure he caught the corner of her mouth twitch with pleasure as it hit a walking target.

"I'm sure it was close to twelve," he lifted the book. They all looked pointedly at it – this wasn't the first time there was something useless in the book he was looking in, though they all humoured him for the sake of it.

At length, Angela blinked. "Is that it?"

The old Rider checked the page to make certain he hadn't presented the wrong one. "No, this is it."

"Would you mind explaining what we are meant to be looking at?"

He shot her a dirty look, "I find it hard to believe you don't even know what it is."

She put down the volume she had been pouring over, interest in the foreign trade policy of Surda forgotten. "It is in your best interest to come straight out with it," she warned, brandishing a feather, the end of which was chewed to pulp.

"She has a point," Nasuada gave him a level stare.

Turning to the page, he tapped a small section just above the mantle. The wood cutting was a representation of the most expensive ensemble in existence. As situation would have it, the pieces were among the first to burn when the Dragon War started. So the story goes. Beneath his finger were two concentric circles linked together by intricate lines.

Nasuada leaned in, squinting to make it out. "My, my."

"Looks as though the Gardian may have something to do with the unexplained disappearance of Alagaësia's most valuable wood works," Angela took the book from him, proceeding to prod the little image with the feather tip.

While they dragged the discarded books back into the tent with renewed vigour, Nasuada retreated, fingering the small gold coin hidden on the chain at her breast. With her eyes shut and head held to catch the last rays of light, she ran her finger over the markings. The coin itself was of no value; no merchant worth half their weight in ale would touch it.

The metal was usually cold in her fingers, even on the hottest of days. Ever since the advance of the King's army seemed to shimmer, then spontaneously vaporise before her very eyes little more than a month ago, it had been growing gradually in warmth. The memory of that horrible day still ran through her mind's eye. The tortured screams that carried on, half an hour by Angela's calculation, before increasing to a deafening pitch while they all stood there, unsure. Unsure of everything. And then nothing. There were no sounds, even the occasional clang of metal on wood as someone behind her moved slightly was barely audible over the echo of the screaming that rang in her ears even now.

"Excuse me."

Startled, she opened her eyes, the screaming instantly shutting off. For a moment she was disoriented, the world spun, her head in the opposite direction. The man caught her arm, steadying her. His touch was brief, releasing his grip the moment she regained her own two feet, yet she could have sworn the coin flared red hot with what little he did.

Catching herself apologising, she cleared her throat. It wasn't very convincing, even though she had no idea what she had intended. "What—what was it you wanted?"

"I nearly ran into you," his voice was above her. She frowned, still confused. "So if anything I want to apologise."

Her eyes focused on his chest. A sharp pain flared in the small of her back. "Apologise, yes," she cleared her throat again, suddenly craving water. She lifted her head, gazing intently at his lips to prevent – she told herself – feinting.

"Well, if there is anything you need, anything at all. Just call me," with that, the stranger turned on his heel and wove his way between the tents.

She collapsed, back aching from bending over. _How odd,_ she thought. It wasn't that she couldn't look at him, was it? No, she didn't think so. Reaching to touch the coin, she started to stand, and steadied herself on a post when beneath her fingers the metal was stone cold. _It's the coin. Against my skin it blistered twice as much as it does when stone cold, as it has been since I first touched it. Inside, it tore apart my heart. And it _was_ my heart – that or something forced energy into my core at the same time they took it away. If I try to explain that to anyone, they'll call me a medic for sure. Perhaps it is time for something far greater than water. Port, or rum. Strange,_ Nasuada giggled, clamping her hands over her mouth to prevent anymore escaping. Not that it helped. _What a strong fancy for something pirate; after all, aren't I a pirate of the land? _She stood smiling at this for what felt to be a long length of time. _Still, _she lifted the coin to her face, _how could anyone believe this was as hot as an iron in a smithy not a moment ago? It's as cold as ice._

A strange thought came to her and she lifted her head. There were the eight guards assigned to her, two of each from all the supporting races of the rebellion. _All except for dragon._ Nasuada sighed. _Where, O where could they have gone?_ Gazing up at the angry sun that bore down on them reminded her of the stranger. She looked again at the guards, lazing in the shade thrown by a nearby tent, exactly where she had left them. As she watched, one of the dwarves stood and waved to her, before vanishing in the general direction of the hole tents. Since Eragon fell into the coma, and with the as far unexplained disappearance of what had to be half the King's army before them, the urgency for the guard had decreased. In truth, she was sick of them following her everywhere and was glad to be rid of them, which was partially the reason she visited the young Rider so much. The fact that she had told them to go do something if they felt it urgent and they had complied, one elf had even began to bring a book with him, seemed to tell her that they thought about the conspiracy with as much disdain as she had.

Of course, on that, the camp was divided. Some thought it as good a thing as any that the King had been taken by surprise and lost half his army. She herself had glanced over at Angela and told her what a great job she had done. When the woman replied that this was as new to her as it was the rest of the camp, Nasuada realised the stories her father had told her as a child were at last coming true. Then, there were the sceptics. These were the ones that thought the King had summoned the agony and terror as nothing more than an illusion. Quite a convincing illusion, was the counter-argument. And this, the leader of the Varden heavily supported. Who would go to that much trouble to convince the enemy that they were at the numbers advantage? Someone with a death wish? That last was Oromis' input, and he was right. The amount of energy required to transport that many people, or at least to hold the illusion of the advance for as long as it had lasted, complete with independent movement, is enough to raise the Beör Mountains to the ground. Nasuada hugged herself warmly at the recollection of Angela as she stood up against Blödgarm.

"_You were there. You all were. Do you really think you're any better than Galbatorix for merely standing and waiting while thousands of innocent people died in complete agony? How can you say you have a right to the land if you will not even defend those who live upon it?" _With that, she had stormed from the tent, leaving the elf red faced and ready to throw punches.

Nasuada wondered who would have won that fight.

_It doesn't matter anymore what any of us think. The message itself was difficult to u__nderstand. I for one know it was from the Gardian, or more specifically the leader. The fact that the other's know it too has helped a great deal. I have to tell them, that's the punch,_ Nasuada twisted the coin in her fingers. _I hope I can come up with a reason they won't kill me for when Islandí gets here. It would be good to start with as little enemies as possible._

"What are you brooding over out here all by yourself?" Angela stepped towards her, two goblets in one hand and an unopened bottle in the other. "Never mind," she waved her full hands when Nasuada made to answer. "Come, you and I need to have a talk."

Without further explanation, she lead the leader of the Varden out of the camp, casually waving off the guards as they stood. She eventually stopped at the top of a grassy knoll, settling herself in between the roots of a large tree. Popping the cork, she poured two level glasses and then began.

"Nasuada, as you are no doubt aware, something colossal is about to, or has already happened. The reason for this, as far as I can tell, is something of which you yourself are quite aware. Am I correct in assuming you keep a calm demeanour for no other reason?"

The woman in question opened her mouth, raising the goblet to her lips as a cover when nothing would come to mind. It shocked her how forward Angela was.

"The Gardian are a rebel group of the elite, you must remember that. All the tales about them from long ago, way before the Dragon War and even the First Rider, they all tell of their violence and their cruelty. There is nothing, and I don't jest, to do them an act of kindness. So it has come to my attention that, knowing this, you of all the pure-hearts in Alagaësia took it upon yourself to summon them to this particular point in time and relative space. Not that I'm telling you off or anything, I'm far from a position to tell you what you have done is right or wrong. I dare suppose it is too late were I to do so.

What I would like to know is how? And why?"

The manner with which the woman's tone had so readily turned grave unnerved her. Nevertheless, Nasuada set aside her goblet, "In all the time we have spent together, Angela, your wisdom and foresight have spoken true enough to eliminate any doubts as to your loyalty," she glanced at her when she said this, unsure of whether that was the right wording; trying to communicate that she meant no offence. Angela merely nodded, and so she continued. "I assume you ask out of curiosity? As to how, my father gave me this before he died," she tugged at the chain at her neck, offering up the coin for inspection.

Angela looked, but made no move to touch it. "If he gave that to you then there was good reason behind it. It is yours and yours alone."

"I suppose, then, that I ought to tell you the exact conditions under which he gave it to me." She wanted to ask, 'Were you referring to the responsibility?' but the moment for that may never come.

This time, she did drink, and deeply. In fact, only when the goblet was refilled for a second time, and Angela produced another bottle from the inside of her coat, did she attempt to elaborate.

"I've had this coin, or whatever it is you want to call it, for a lot longer than I have been here." It was Angela's turn to be confused, though she didn't ask whether she meant here as in her position of power, or here as in living.

Instead, she nodded in encouragement.

"When he gave it to me, it was with strict orders to only use it when there was no alternative."

"An alternative to what, I wonder?" she spoke so softly that her words were nearly inaudible over the rustling of the branches as they swayed above them.

"I know it was the right thing to do," Nasuada surprised even herself with the vehemence in her tone, a fervour that fired her up enough to push on. "More than half of Galbatorix' army vanished before our very eyes. You cannot tell me that was an illusion, or try to explain it away with excuses and superstitions." At length, she added in a somewhat deflated voice: "Even though this is the Allmother of superstition."

"Many horrors and fears were born of Gardian legends and lore. All that haven't died, at least, are terrifying even for those who choose to tell them to children." Almost to herself, she added, "Perhaps that is why they would sooner be forgotten."

The conversation seemed too depressing to continue. _I guess this is what happens when death and future become one and the same. Then again, aren't they already?_ Nasuada shut her eyes, losing herself in the gentle swaying of the branches, allowing them to lull her into a false sense of security. If only for a moment.

A deafening roar, penetrating to the point of waking the dead, resounded across the open plane bellow the grassy knoll. Nasuada was instantly mobilised, despite the alarming amount she had had to drink. Almost instantly, however, she was doubled over, heaving into the roots of the tree. Angela seemed not to have noticed, or not to have cared, glancing at her briefly before busying herself with three empty bottles.

Nasuada straightened herself with difficulty, head spinning, _I don't remember there being that many... _Further thoughts were obliterated as a great shadow descended from overhead.

"Is that...? Glaedr?" she asked, swaying in the slipstream, grateful for the blast of cool air.

"Seems to be." Her tone caught her attention. Glancing over, Nasuada was surprised further when Angela stumbled to her feet, giggling, hands full of empty bottles.

"Okay, I don't want to know how long we were out here for or where you managed to hide that many bottles of rum."

"Rum?" Angela looked at the bottom of one of the bottles for so long, Nasuada was convinced she was going to say nothing more. "You'd be lucky if they'd let you walk with what you'd been drinking...Rum, she says..."

"Mi—mi—my Lady..." the messenger doubled over, seeming to have as much difficulty with the desperate sprint up the hill as she had with keeping what was left inside her stomach from leaving.

"Yes?"

"I, um..." he waved his hands in a manner that seemed rather odd. Nasuada was surprised at the youth he displayed. Then he seemed to get himself under control, and she had – at least in her current condition – a little trouble convincing herself of his age. "Oromis-elda wishes for your immediate presence. He says it is rather urgent." In fact, the nonchalance he displayed at the presence of a large golden dragon was odd behaviour, especially if she was ready to believe the boy really was that. A boy.

Glancing at Angela, who was paying the building commotion as much attention as the boy himself, who in turn only stood there, as though waiting for something, Nasuada removed herself from the support of the tree and made her way down the grassy knoll towards the camp.

* * *

Little heavy, then again, most of this is heavy covered with a twisted humour to keep it in check... who knows, perhaps the void will overflow into this universe?

Xx Maximoose :3


	3. Two: The Empty Cup  Mark One

Yoyo, I know this took forever... and so it should be HUGE right? Well, truth is... ummmm... anyway, I wrote the draft for this (by hand, scary :3) on my birthday. That was a month ago today - I didnt seriously notice until now...

Points of awesomeness for all those who guess who the character is in the first half (*clue: the character telling the second part is a Gardian)

NOTE: the first line is the random bit I usually put in with italics, but as the first little bit is in italics I put it in normal...confused?

_song: Hoodoo, MUSE_

_

* * *

_

I look into the darkness... and what do I see?... An old man... haggard... beckoning to me...

_It should be cold, even though It is not. The changing landscapes, the rolling hills, the sandless beaches, everything has It. The never ending storm. Shattering darkness. Laughter. Blood. Fear._

_Not cold._

_Never cold._

_It is a whirlwind, a hurricane, a sandstorm... of nothing._

_It generates the skies, the moon, the stars. Built from Its own flesh. It surrounds me – and It is me. All I can see. All I want It to be._

_I see It in the air I believe I breath, feel It in the sand I believe I walk on. I think I run my hand through my hair, but in reality It touches It in a never ending swirl of nothing._

_How can this be?_

_How can something that is nothing logically become something?_

"_It is because you believe..."_

_The voice drifts through It, reaching my ears. I believe I can hear It, but does It have a voice?_

"_Only if you want me to..."_

_The voice of It is drifting, never here nor there. The inbetween._

"_Oh, how clever you are, Rider..."_

_It sounds familiar, that mocking, intelligent tone. One that makes me feel very angry._

"_Yesss..." It hisses, "Get angry... you know that makes everything go away..."_

_I spin around—I believe I do. There is no logical way to tell. It never changes._

"_All you need to do is believe, Rider..."_

_I want to yell, but believe It cannot hear me._

"_What a pity. The little man cannot fix what he cannot see..."_

_The words are ones I have heard before, though many years ago. The voice of It chuckles. It sounds like the wind. It is the wind. I am floating over It. Within It. Flying._

"_Do you want to know how long it has been?"_

_I do not wish to find out what It means, but It is louder, getting louder still as I begin to fall._

"_Too long. It is all your fault. You, who cannot even remember..."_

_Maybe I have always been falling._

_Maybe that is the point._

The cup is empty. Instead of waving the bartender I wave the glass. Looking into the base as it passes over the crest carved into the wood, the feeling of melancholy returns. That dream, it feels like a long time ago. But I remind myself it was not.

The glass stops moving. The voice from my dream, it was right. I am a coward, even if it did not say so in as many words.

It is amazing how soon one reverts back to old habits.

I focus on a small bug, watching it scuttle across the beer stained bench.

I've been here before. The way I feel. The broken seat by the bar. The empty glass. The glass that is always empty. Like my heart. Only my heart is not empty.

It is simply missing a piece.

Once upon a time I believed it would be found at the bottom of a glass. And so I drank. Until no bar on the west coast would take me. I got into fights. I stole. Lived in the gutter most of the time. The really sad part is I began to forget the real reason I was drinking. I forgot about the missing piece. I forgot what I had been. And that made me remember what I had become.

The bug comes closer. Inching. Stopping. It's antennae twitch.

I look once more into the bottom of the glass. What I look for is not there.

In one deft movement, I upend it over the bug.

Now the glass is not completely empty.

* * *

"Looks to be a storm approaching," mutters the bartender. Everyone in the small seaside pub can hear him. And all pretend they hadn't.

A new comer pushes the door and it closes, shutting out the cold and the blasting wind with it.

_A storm approaching._ Now there is something rather ironic.

_You have no idea,_ I think, staring at the nearly full glass before me. That is what my companion would say. It is not and he is wrong. The glass was once full, but what little I have taken has made it empty. _And it may as well be empty._

_You need to stop doing that, girl._ The other door, the one by the bar that leads to the private outhouses, which are only holes in the ground fenced off by waist high stones (so, very secure), opens.

I shudder with the blast of cold air. The course of drugs either haven't actually started to work in the time they assured me that they would, or are already beginning to wear off. I shudder again, this time not from the cold.

It hurts. Everything.

At the moment it is kind of okay. It sort of is if I don't move.

"It's cold out there," he breaths, sitting again down at the end of the table. It is small, and in the corner opposite the fire. I want to sit over there, it is too cold between two doors leading to the outside. He thinks I shouldn't, says I need to stay awake this time. The drugs aren't exactly helping, and neither is the blood loss and the pain. The thick and heavy coat he made me wear does not that much good, either. I'm sweating like a stuck pig, never mind the fever.

"Really?" I ask in a sarcastic tone, shivering again as the old man comes back to the bar from the same place.

"Rather busy this evening, don't you think?" he chooses to ignore my question, rubbing his hands together under the table. As if I don't get it. He never exactly listens that much to me anyway. "Are you going to drink that?"

He looks at me expectantly and I return it.

_What do you think?_

He takes the glass and nearly drains it.

"Whatever happened to watching how much you put away?"

He points at me with a waving finger as the rest is vastly swallowed. "Depends..." he pauses to belch, "depends on the person, and, of course, what they will be doing in the morning."

I snort with laughter. I get shot a filthy look as he stands to retrieve another. That's so like him.

Shaking my head, my attention is drawn to where the old man was sitting at the bar. He has returned to the outhouses, leaving behind his glass, upturned over a bug.

The shaking has gotten worse. Under the table I'm rubbing furiously at my right arm. There's a stab at my temple. My knee screams as I shift my leg. It all hurts. I don't know what more. I want to die. Why can't it just be over?

"What did I say about being negative?"

"Lücienn, you didn't," I stare at him, frowning. My vision has just greyed out. I'm burning up.

He swears, hastily putting down the three glasses he has just collected from the bar.

_I hope you payed for that,_ I shoot in his general direction as he clamps one hand over my arm and the other on my stomach. _That's not going to exactly help, now is it?_

_Shut up, you're not making sense._

_I'm not making sense? How much have you had?_

The outside door opens, the one facing the sea, and I swear, though I don't know whether it was inside my head or not and do not particularly care.

"Shi-it," Ellen chimes, coming in from the cold (_to relieve the babysitter,_ I can't help thinking in a sudden fury). She does pretty much the same thing as Lücienn.

"I don't think the drug is working."

We both look at him, though I have to guess roughly where he is.

"What?"

I roll my eyes, reaching out to grab the front of his cloak. I don't exactly know why.

"You are an..." I can't get it out. I can see the word idiot in my head, its right there next to dickhead and moron. Yet for some reason it just doesn't make it to my mouth.

It feels like I'm sitting right next to the fire. I can feel the heat as it rises, coming closer. _Are you sure we aren't next to the fire? _It's so weird. Like everything has suddenly been consumed by the heat. But for some reason I don't really feel it. On the inside. Like the world is burning but somewhere deep inside me is a place so very cold that the fire is moving away from it to preserve its own existence. I don't like it. I've had this dream before. And I know how it ends.

I try to reach out with my body at first. Nothing happens. So I give that up and go after it with my mind. Still, the fire moves away. It moves faster the more I move towards it, doesn't cease nor slow whenever I stop.

And I have to. Have to stop.

I can't reach it.

It is too far away.

Like looking up at the moon from the bottom of a well. You jump and jump, claw at the walls, scream. But the sky never comes closer.

* * *

_Did you guess? (if you did, please don't be mad. I do compensate for the 'additions' - which probably gave it away - by, ummm...yeah. Don't be mad about that either.) It is kind of obvious, but you never know... :#_

_R&R!_

_Maximoose :3_

_-I was in a dark place when I wrote this. In a way I still am._


	4. Three: The Dead and the Living Part One

This is a continuation from the chapter before last. The Empty Cup ones are flashbacks.

It kind of took forever for me to figure out how to do it, so I hope it works... though what I had hoped to achieve, I do not know.

_song: Mindfields, the Prodigy_

* * *

_... The dark is Death... but the light... now that is interesting..._

There seemed to be something wrong; the entire world was tipping as she plunged down the hill towards the tents. Nasuada had never before had the opportunity to see the people (_her_ people, as she must constantly remind herself) in such a state of panic. Sure, there was the strange disappearance of the King's army, though many had put that to superstition. And the sudden comatose state of their Rider hadn't brought about the same reactions from the hundreds and thousands that made up the resistance.

The commotion had built to such turmoil that the only part of the dragon distinguishable was the golden glare his scales gave off in the light. Which, amazingly, was receding.

_I could have sworn it was not that late when Angela joined me. Then again, _she reminded herself, _there seemed to be an awful lot of empty bottles._

A sudden thought struck her.

Glancing around, however, gave no indication of the whereabouts of the witch.

'That is interesting,' she muttered to herself, quite close to the tents when she stopped herself short of them. Dishevelled, she stood there in the fading light, on too level ground to see the large golden dragon and the mass crowd that had accumulated.

Something wasn't right.

A shiver prickled down her spine, causing every hair on her body to attempt to tear themselves away at the same moment. Her eyes widened. She felt that only once before, when she witnessed the unexplained disappearance of her mother. The feeling of dread.

Something was here.

Something bad.

Something very bad.

'O no, it has started, it is too late...'

Afraid to turn around, she stood there, in the dead spot where the many layers of canvas and wood blocked the sounds coming from the heart of the Varden camp.

A heavy frost seemed to paralyse her. She knew she had to warn them all, to save them. It was all she could do to honour the memory of her father. It was all she could do.

If only she could move.

_Why... why can I not..._

Nothing moved to fulfil any function she saw them perform in her mind.

Glancing at her hand only worsened the feeling of terror. A thin layer of ice had started to form on the back, creeping its way gradually up her arm.

'Mmmm-mmm-mm...mmmmm-mmmuh... mo-oo-ove,' she forced the reluctant words at the same time she felt something, something equally heavy, blast through it. The hold instantly vanished, and the Varden leader Nasuada ran. Nasuada ran like the hounds of hell were after her, and did not stop until she ploughed directly into the old Rider.

'Oromis, I—' the rising panic she felt was met with subtle and overbearing doubt as the look on his face made hers fall. 'Wh-wh-wh-what—' she shivered, unable to get the words out. _He must think I am a complete idiot,_ she thought, feeling the warmth return to her cheeks.

Something flashed into her mind's eye. A boy. Only there seemed to be something wrong with him.

She clutched at her head as the link intensified, the picture, however, distorted behind the veil of blinding pain.

It took a long time to recede, and when it did so, only to a feint throb behind her eyes.

She buried her head into the old Rider's chest, sobbing.

'I felt that,' his hand caressed her hair.

There was something in his voice. Fear?

She pulled back as the thought sluggishly made its way into her mind. 'No,' she breathed, as before her his face changed.

Horror struck her and she threw herself away from him, the bones under his skin straining against it, stretching it in places. His eyes turned a dark, bloody red, his face lengthened, teeth filing themselves to razors as giant bat-like wings erupted from his back. She fell into the side of a tent as he reared up before her, spittle spraying from his mouth, and the world around them became just as horrifying.

The skies became red to match his eyes, with giant winged creatures, many larger than Glaedr, screaming in an alien anger. Flames seemed to control this world, filling her head until it felt like it would explode.

Nasuada opened her mouth and screamed.


	5. Four: The Dead and the Living Part Two

I know this time it took forever, and for that I appologise. I understand there was some confusion over the details in the previous chapter and hope they were ironed out here. If not, then perhaps later is a better time for the truth to be realised.

Sounds sort of poetic...

_Song: P Is For Piano - Danny The Dog - Massive Attack_

* * *

_...what is death but an extension of life?..._

Nasuada opened her eyes to the dark.

_Don't be stupid,_ she told herself, struggling to sit in a small crook provided by the tree's roots. _It's only the dark._ Even to her own mind it was clear she did not believe a word of it.

'Something is happening,' she murmured, a cold chill running down her back and producing goose bumps down the length of her arm.

_Of course something is happening,_ reprimanding herself, Nasuada shakily stood, wrapping the skirt of her dress about herself to ward away the cold.

Night had fallen.

_How much had I been drinking? I know there were a lot of empty bottles littered about Angela by the end of that... rather strange conversation. That still doesn't necessarily mean... _Her hand unconsciously lifted to her forehead. _This is all beginning to get far too much. I really do have no idea what is happening. That dream..._ Her mind returned to the scene of death that it had witnessed only moments ago. Even as she attempted to recall the events exactly as they had occurred, she knew and felt her heart sink because of it, that she would be unable.

It was already twilight, the shadows provided by the trees casting eerily against the already bleak and night-washed grass.

Nasuada watched a small butterfly flitter among the branches, before it, too, came to rest and vanished beyond the leaves.

_So, this is it,_ she thought. 'Everything has its place.'

_Except for me..._ the chill that ran down her back reminded her of the frost that had crept its way so readily up her arm. But of course, there was nothing there.

That kind of thing is merely a reaction of an overactive imagination brought about by an exhausted mind. She shocked herself with the words of the many advisers she had.

_Ah, but I don't really exist... Do I, Little Girl..._The voice seemed to pass through her. A whirlwind of emotion that billowed and flared the tough boughs of the trees without bending them. Except it couldn't be a voice, unless the universe really was made up of one thing and that one thing was sighing.

Nevertheless, that undistinguishable wave was headed directly towards the camp. And she had to get there before it did. She knew it right through to her bones.

Running flat out, Nasuada's anxiety grew. How long had she been asleep, both before and after the strange dream? And how in Alagaësia did she manage to get this far from the camp?

She forced herself to stop and get her bearings. For all she knew, she was heading in the wrong direction. Perhaps if she were to head it off... no, that wouldn't work. Whatever it is, she knew now that it was something evil, a threat. But more importantly, she knew without questionable doubt that this thing was new.

Shutting her eyes and taking a deep breath, she let down the walls that surrounded her mind. Instantly she felt Oromis, and reached out, shouting both with words and thoughts.

_Oromis! Something very bad is about to happen, I have no time to explain! I need you to get anyone and everyone able! Get them to the West end of the camp and make them form a wall!_

_But—I—What? Nasuada—!_

_Just do it! And get them to clear their minds!_

_Hold on—!_

_Now!_

She immediately broke off the link, hoping and somehow knowing it would be enough. _And if it isn't..._ Nasuada sat with her back to the trunk of a tree, hugging her shins tightly to her chest.

'Then we are all doomed.'


End file.
